


The Outcast God

by EndlessStairway



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Bargains with gods, God Loki, God/worshipper, M/M, Made up mythology, Not Canon Compliant, Sick Kid, Tony is a good dad, Worshipper Tony, or anything else compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessStairway/pseuds/EndlessStairway
Summary: Should I be working on one of my many other projects? Yes. Am I? No,I'm writing a one-shot I swear will not spiral off into an extended story, for once.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 294
Kudos: 403





	1. The Offering (Art by Shivanessa)

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be working on one of my many other projects? Yes. Am I? No, ~~I'm writing a one-shot I swear will not spiral off into an extended story, for once.~~

Tony Stark clutched his daughter in his arms and fought his way through the crowd. Morgan's feverish head rested on her father’s shoulder, and he could not tell if she was unconscious or merely sleeping. It was the eve of the new year, and the whole of the city was headed for the main square to celebrate, to drink, carouse and make offerings at the four Corner temples. Everyone wanted the blessing of the Corners at new year, and the priests were overworked, sleep-deprived, and greedy.

Tony, however, was going in the other direction. He was finished with those gods. He had prayed to them all, and his daughter had only gotten sicker. He had made offerings - wine, incense, silver - the best he could afford, but Morgan had received no blessing, no healing. He had even given his hammer to Thor, and as a blacksmith, Tony’s hammer was one of his most precious possessions. Nonetheless, Tony had put it on Thor’s altar, he had knelt and prayed, begged for mercy for his daughter, but her fever had only risen. That morning, the girl’s grandmother, his late wife’s mother, had shaken her head and gone to sew a shroud.

That day, from dawn to dusk, Tony had prayed at the four Corners - the temples of Thor of thunder, Frigga the oracle, Odin of wisdom, and the multi-headed Norns of fate that bound them together. He had emptied his pockets, argued and pleaded with the priests, and begged the altar attendants. They had not helped him, but Tony had not given up hope. 

There was another. 

The fifth god: a misfit, a dark, shadowed creature, cast out from the Corners. That was where Tony was going now, Morgan in his arms. She would not last the night, and the girl was all he had left. Tony could not lose her. If she died, he would lie down in the grave with her small body and let them bury him, too.

The fifth temple was not on the main square. It was buried in the dirty warren of streets behind the market. Everyone knew where it was, even if no one admitted to going there. Only the most desperate ever went, and some of those who begged for the outcast god’s favor did not come back.

Despite the raucous new year celebrations happening all around them, the street of the fifth temple was silent and still. The massive stone door bore the outcast god’s sigil - a horned raven, its beak razor-sharp, its eyes bright and knowing. The stonework had been vandalized years ago, and one of the wings was partially chipped off. Tony shivered at the sight of the cold puddle of metal on the flagstones under that wing. Legend told that it was the melted mallet and chisel of the vandal, struck to molten liquid by the outcast god’s rage. Of the vandal himself, nothing was known.

Tony kissed Morgan's forehead for courage, feeling once again the crackling heat of fever radiating from her. This was their only chance. Tony touched the door, and it swung open, soundless and slow, as though something had been waiting for him.

He stepped inside.

The temple of the outcast god had no priests, no attendants, no choirs, and no processions. It was still and silent. The interior was clean and dry, the black marble floor gleamed, and the high, narrow windows were unmarred by dust.

Tony’s feet echoed on the stone as he walked. The temple was so dark that the far walls faded from his sight. The room felt as large as a cavern, and Tony had no candle or lamp to light the way. Only the last rays of the old year’s sun illuminated the room, sinking and fading, falling on the low stone altar as Tony approached.

Behind the stone slab, a magnificent jeweled mosaic showed the god towering over the empty temple; black hair and emerald eyes, horns that spiraled up from his head, dark wings spread. Tony swallowed. He had no other choice, he reminded himself. If the outcast god would not help Morgan, no one would.

Tony knelt at the altar and bowed his head. He did not know what manner of prayer the outcast god wanted - words of praise or of fear, songs and music, or perhaps only silent supplication. The desperate few who sought him out did not tell of their experience in his temple, and Tony had nothing to go on.

“I bring you an offering,” Tony ventured, his voice small and lost in the shadows of the vast temple. He had one thing left to give, one thing that he had kept back from the Corners, perhaps knowing that he would need it. It was his late wife’s wedding ring, a gold band with a ruby stone. Tony had made it himself, and it had been Pepper’s most precious possession. Before she had died two years ago, of the same fever that now threatened their daughter, she had given it to Tony and told him to keep it for Morgan's wedding. He had promised her that he would, but he broke that promise now. There would be no wedding if Morgan did not last the night, and so Tony hefted her in his arms and tried to reach into his pocket to bring out the jewel. He would lay it on the outcast god’s altar and beg for Morgan's life. That was all he had left, it was all that he could do.

Tony shifted on his knees, the awkward weight of his daughter making it hard for him to maneuver. He could not find the ring. Perhaps it was in his other pocket. He was sweating under his shirt, tension ratcheting higher, and he moved Morgan to his other arm and dug into that pocket.

No ring

He knew he had it! He had taken it from behind the loose stone in his forge that morning, wrapped it in a clean cloth, and put it in his pocket. Alarmed, on the verge of panic, he set Morgan down on the flat stone in front of him and shoved both his hands into the pockets, pulling out anything he could find, desperate for the ring. Without an offering, the god would not even hear his prayer, never mind grant it; everyone knew that. The richer the offering, the more kindly the gods looked upon you. Frigga was sometimes rumored to take pity on the tears of parents and children, but she had not done so for Tony and Morgan.

Tony’s pockets were empty. He realized with an empty sob that his quest was over. Some thief in the crush of the new year crowd had stolen the ring from his pocket, and his daughter’s life was forfeit. The girl lay sprawled out on the stone, and a helpless tear dropped from Tony’s face as he leaned forward to pick her up. He would take her home and sit up with her, ensure her last hours were as comfortable as they could be.

Tony could not lift her.

His heart lurched in his chest, and he gasped, horrified. He tried again. He could hold her, he would feel her, but when he tried to lift the child, it was as though she was carved from the stone itself. “No,” Tony whispered, “No, no, no.” He tried to wrench her off the stone, off the _altar_. But she did not move.

_“An offering,”_ came a dark voice, a deep purr, echoing all around the temple. Every hair on Tony’s neck stood up, the instinctive reaction of prey to the sound of a predator. _“It has been some time since anyone gave me their own child.”_

“No!” Tony cried, wrapping his arms around Morgan's still form, “No, not her! I have an offering for you, a ring, a ruby set in gold.”

_“Hmm,”_ came the reply, the sound was almost in Tony’s ear that time and Tony tried to put himself between the voice and his daughter. _“I think I will take the girl.”_

Tony shuddered, terror thudding through his veins. He should never have come here. The outcast god was not to be trifled with, but perhaps there was still a chance…. “She’s sick,” Tony said, his voice breaking, “She’s sick. If you heal her, I will give you the ring.”

“Show me this ring,” hissed the voice, the mocking tone of the god well aware that his supplicant did not have it. Tony glimpsed dark wings from the corner of his eye. He spun around but saw nothing. The sun was gone, and the temple should have been black, but a strange sprinkling of lights shone on the ceiling, like distant stars, casting a faint glow over the place.

“I’ll find the ring, I will give you anything,” Tony sobbed. His desperation and exhaustion flooded out of him in a wave; his days of futile prayers and expensive offerings, his nights of sitting by his daughter’s bed, endlessly wetting the cloths that could not cool her blazing fever.

A figure stepped out of the blackness, tall and fearsome. The light of the ceiling-stars flared and shimmered on black wings, on gold-bound horns, on the double-glint of emerald green where eyes shone, as bright as jewels. “Anything?” the god said, standing on the other side of the altar, towering over Tony where he knelt with Morgan. “You have already given me your daughter, what do you have that is more precious than her?”

“Please,” Tony said, frantic and begging, desperate to undo his mistake, “Please, don’t take her away from me. I have nothing else to give you, the four Corners took everything I had and they did not help her! You’re my only hope. I beg you.” His voice sank to a low whisper, his tears thick in his throat.

The god sneered at the mention of the Corners and turned away, pacing through the shadows, a whisper of wings, a glint of gold, a flash of bright eyes. “So, you wish me to heal your dying child, and your offer to me in exchange is _nothing_?”

“I don’t have anything,” Tony whispered, bowing his head and touching his forehead to the altar.

“You have _courage_ ,” the god said, thoughtful. The chilling purr of his words fading to something less terrifying. The voice was still not human in tone, but it did not trigger Tony’s flight response quite so intensely. “You came to me. Few do. Even those as desperate as you will accept the judgment of the Corners rather than risk coming here. Do you know why?”

Tony shook his head, “They are afraid of you,” he guessed, and the god laughed, cold and harsh.

“Yes,” he hissed, delighted at Tony’s honest response, “They are afraid of me. But is it because I do not keep my promises? Or because I _do_?”

Tony did not know what to say to that. It hinted at dark secrets, perhaps something that had happened during the holy conflict centuries before. The history of that war was only taught in whispers. The priests of the Corners never mentioned now that there had once been a fifth god.

The god glared, and Tony ducked his head, gripping the altar-stone with one hand and his daughter’s arm with the other. He was afraid that if he let her go, the god would take her, and Tony would never see her again. The god leaned down, his black hair falling forward, the horns that crowned his head gleaming in the dim light. He looked Morgan over, and Tony could do nothing but tremble before him.

“A dead girl is no use to me,” The god said eventually. “I will heal her, and she will be my priest. She will stay in my temple and serve me.”

Tony closed his eyes, tried to imagine Morgan waking up in this dark place, her father and grandmother gone, alone except for the shadowy god. She would be terrified. She would cry for her father, and Tony would not be there to hear her. She would think herself abandoned. He looked up at the god, an unspoken plea in his eyes, and to his surprise the god’s fierce face softened.

“It is not the life you imagined for her, perhaps, but it is still life. Better than a cold grave, is it not?”

Tony should know better than to try the mercy of a god, but as his late wife had often said, he may be smart with metal, but he could be stupid with people. Morgan had already lost her mother. If Tony could prevent her from losing her only other living relatives as well, he would.

He looked up into the emerald eyes of the outcast god. “Take me,” he said. “I’ll be your priest. If you heal my daughter and let her go, I will do whatever you want for the rest of my days. My daughter can live with her grandmother, she can live a normal life, she can play and learn and be free.” 

_She will not be a bound priest to a dark god,_ Tony thought, desperate, _not if there is any other option._

There was a long silence, the outcast god towering over the kneeling man, the girl unconscious on the altar between them. “You do have courage,” the god mused, “You are a blacksmith, I can smell the iron on you. Take off your shirt.”

Tony gaped at the god, the abrupt shift making him think he had misheard the order. “What?” he said, dumbfounded.

“Take it off!” the god growled, his wings spreading behind him, the left side misshapen and foreshortened. Tony stared at it, sickened. The flight feathers were missing. _The legend is true,_ Tony thought - the Corners had pinioned the god’s wing before they cast him out. Tony shut his eyes; there were some things that a wise man should not see. He ripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the altar.

The god hummed, calmer now, and when Tony dared to look, his wings were folded again, the green eyes thoughtful as they swept over Tony’s bare chest. “You are strong,” the god said, and Tony could not help the relief that swept through him. He _was_ strong. He worked hard at his forge, wielding his own hammer and stoking his own furnace. He was in his late twenties now and in the prime of his strength. He could work, and the god could see that. The god was considering his offer, and Tony began to feel the first creeping thread of hope that perhaps Morgan may live.

“Take me,” Tony offered again, eager now. “I am a blacksmith, a good one. I’ll dedicate my forge to you, I’ll carve your sigil in my anvil and hammer, every piece I create will be a prayer to you. I’ll bring offerings to your temple every night. I’ll tattoo your name over my heart. I’ll be devoted to you. I’ll be your priest.”

The god licked his lips, and Tony knew he had him. “All I ask for,” Tony confirmed, “is my daughter’s life.”

“Stand,” the god ordered, and Tony scrambled to his feet, eager to show how obedient he could be. Footsteps circled him, and Tony’s neck prickled as the god moved behind him, close, his wings almost brushing the blacksmith’s broad shoulders.

“Very well,” the god said, returning to the altar, his inspection complete. The dark purr of satisfaction was back in his voice as he said, “I accept your offering. You will be my priest and I will heal the child. Swear yourself to me.” 

He held out one hand, curved black nails glinting against pale skin, and Tony instinctively knew what was required. He climbed onto the altar, presenting himself on his knees next to his daughter. The outcast god was a dark presence before him, growing as he watched, his wings opening, eyes brightening, the ceiling-stars flickering and flaring far in the distance. Tony took the offered hand in both of his, the touch of the god vibrating with power, with trapped energy. He bowed his head, pressing the cool, firm flesh of the god to his forehead as he made his promise.

“I swear myself to your service,” Tony said, his voice hoarse, “I belong to you from this moment until the moment of my death. On my daughter’s life I make this oath.” Next to him, Morgan sighed and relaxed, the fever falling away from her, the bright flush leaving her face. She was merely sleeping now, the natural sleep of healing and not the dangerous unconsciousness of sickness. Tony pressed a fervent kiss to the god’s hand, tears of relief and gratitude threatening to overwhelm him.

The god stared down at him, his eyes so bright now that they almost glowed, bright green and hypnotic. His mismatched wings spread behind him, as vast as the night sky, and his horns twisted and writhed on his head, towering almost to the distant ceiling. “Say my name,” the god ordered in a harsh whisper, and Tony met his eyes, fearless now before his god, his deity, his master.

Loki,” Tony said, the god’s name like honey on his tongue, “I belong to you now, Loki of the air and sky.

The god Loki smiled. Throughout the city, bells rang, and crowds cheered as the new year began.

(Art by [Shivanessa](https://shivanessa.tumblr.com/post/638948765232939008/scetch-for-the-amazing-story-outcast-god-by))


	2. The Sigils (Art by Shivanessa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day everyone! Love to you all!

Loki paced in his temple. He could feel the prayers of his priest, the blows of his hammer as he shaped the sigils on his anvil. It had been so long since Loki had been praised in such a way, not with fear and hurried, furtive offerings, but with loud, open praise - almost worship. Loki paced and scowled and shredded his fingernails against the stone of his altar at the fevered thought of _worship_.

All day he felt it, the heavy blows each a prayer to Loki; praise and gratitude, a father’s love wrapped up in every strike, lending power to his praise. Loki hungered for it, even from across the city. The prayers of a single, untrained mortal turned his nerves to hot ice and caused the feathers of his wings to shiver and twist. He enjoyed it at first. He relished the sensation as a thirsty man may relish a cold drink, or a tired man may relish the comfort of his bed, but as the day wore on, he grew impatient. The prayers continued; his priest was diligent in his work, Loki would allow that, but how long could it take to make sigils? One for his hammer and one for his anvil, he had said, and a tattoo over his heart. Did that take all day? Loki had no idea how long it took to work iron, but the hammer beat on his nerves, and the caress of the prayers grew to a long, endless tease, the shiver turned to a fever of desire, the faint call too distant. Loki wanted his priest here _now_ , here in his temple, but he did not come.

The sun set and the moon rose, and still Loki waited, his patience long gone, his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. Did this priest mock him? Did he fear him so little that he would fail in his duties on the very first day that he held them? No. Loki would not allow it. He would have his due from this priest, or he would hold him to his oath and take the girl instead. Loki folded his mismatched wings around himself and twisted through the growing dusk and shadows to the mortal’s forge, arriving to heat and smoke and the hiss of oil as something was quenched.

“Priest,” Loki demanded his attention. The mortal jumped and spun where he stood, an ugly, heavy leather apron wrapped around his body, his hair sweaty and disheveled. He held a pair of tongs in his gloved hand, and grasped in the tongs was the most perfect sigil Loki had ever seen. It glowed, not with heat but with the prayers that had been worked into it. To Loki’s arcane senses, it was a furnace to rival the fire that heated the forge.

“Loki!” The smith said, startled. “How…why are you here?”

Loki stared at the sigil. Looking at it was like looking down a deep well; it drew him in, it sucked at him as though he would fall. He curled his lip and forced his eyes away. “Where should I be, priest?” he demanded. “Alone in my temple, patiently awaiting your attentions?”

The mortal swallowed. He would have stepped away from the god but for the heavy anvil at his back. Instead, he held up the bright sigil defensively in front of him. Instinctively, Loki’s wings spread out, the feathers longing to bask in the glorious light of the sigil. Loki forced them back behind him, the pain and shame of the aching pinion joint shaking him out of his reverie.

“I made these for you,” the smith stammered, the hand that held the tongs shaking only slightly.

Loki could not stand it, to see such perfection from this mortal, from his man who only swore his oath to Loki to buy his child’s life. What could such a man do if his service were willingly given? He could light Loki’s temple by himself if he truly were devoted. Loki snatched the sigil, ripping it out of the grip of the tongs and holding it in his palm. He glared at the smith, hardly able to understand the mix of longing and anger that churned inside him. He could have had this. He could have had this devotion if not for...the pinion joint ached again, and Loki snarled. He grabbed the man before him, ripping off his protective leather clothes and tearing the shirt off his back.

“Where is my name?” he growled, shoving him back against the anvil, harder than he intended, the man’s face twisting in pain. Loki told himself to be careful; this one was but mortal. One single mortal could not possibly replace the many priests that Loki had lost, destroyed by the gods of the corners, along with Loki’s helpless children. One mortal was too fragile a vessel to hold that grief, and too weak to carry that hope.

But still, Loki hungered.

“Where is my name!” he said, the shadow of his mismatched wings spreading across the walls of the forge.

(Art by [Shivanessa](https://shivanessa.tumblr.com/post/639020275819773952/yeah-instead-of-writing-a-comment-to-the-new))

The blacksmith stared at him, his mouth open, fear and awe behind his eyes, but standing firm. Loki was impressed. Most fled at the merest hint of a feather, but not this one. Not his priest.

“Your name?” the man repeated.

“My name,” Loki growled, one hand flat on the blacksmith’s chest. “Did you not promise to write my name over your heart? Where is it!”

Realization dawned in the blacksmith’s eyes. “I will! I will! Loki, please, why are you so angry with me? I made you these sigils, it took me all day. Tattoos cost money, and I don’t have any. I don’t even have money for food, I had to send Morgan to her grandmother to eat…”

Loki ignored his priest’s excuses and looked around the forge, seeing it properly for the first time. Racks that should have held tools were empty. The pile of coal next to the furnace was almost gone. There was no finished work to be seen. “I sold it all,” the blacksmith said quietly, hanging his head. “I sold everything. First for medicine and then for...you know. I had enough to make these for you, and then...then I have to figure something out.”

Loki snarled, impatient with this mean place and with petty mortal concerns. His priest did not belong here. He belonged with his god. Loki grabbed the man by the shoulders, wrapped him in his wings, and spun him through the shadows back to the temple. The tongs flew out of the mortal’s hand and skittered across the marble floor when they arrived, the priest himself following them down as he staggered dizzily and sat down with a thump. “Hey!” he complained, more irritated than afraid. Despite himself, Loki smiled. His priest had courage; he had been right about that.

“I will do it for you,” he commanded, pointing to the altar stone. “Lay down.”

“What?” the mortal stepped back. He looked over his shoulder, but the doors to the temple were firmly shut. The only light came from the pinpricks of stars that glittered on the ceiling.

“You have been gone all day,” Loki said, stalking towards his priest, “All day I have heard your hammer forging my name in metal. You have whetted my hunger, priest and now you will satisfy it. Lay down.”

Loki spread his dark wings and herded the man to the low altar. When it hit him behind the knees, his legs folded and he sat down, his shirt hanging in shreds from his shoulders, his dark eyes wide. Loki cupped his chin and looked into his eyes, his own reflection looking back at him, winged and horned and fearsome. “I will not hurt you,” he allowed, finding that he did not like his priest’s fear as much as he liked his gratitude.

“What are you going to do?” the man asked, but he did lay down on the stone, the god’s fingertips on his chest, holding him where he was wanted.

“You are mine,” Loki sighed, the rhythm of the smith’s hammer still ringing in his blood. “I am going to put my mark on you.” 

The god held up the sigil he had taken from the forge, glowing in his hand, the stars above them sparking and feeding it with spiraling threads of power. It was the tattered remnants of what power Loki used to enjoy, but it was enough for this. More than enough. The priest saw the glowing sigil in his god’s hand and blanched, expecting to be burned; the glow of metal was a warning of pain to a blacksmith.

Loki did not give him a chance to escape. He gathered his wrists in his hand and pressed them to the cold stone, as well-caught as any shackles. It was only then that the priest panicked, true fear blooming in his eyes. He squirmed and kicked and struggled enough that Loki sat astride him, pinning him down with his weight on the mortal’s hips, his spread wings like a canopy above them, blocking the light of the temple-stars. Loki’s priest stilled, staring up at him wide-eyed, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake, his breath short, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Loki, please,” he whispered, the glow of the sigil shining in his deep brown eyes.

Loki ignored him; his priest had given his promise, after all. He had given his agreement, this refusal was merely his fear, spiraling out of control. Such fear would not be allayed by words, only by actions; Loki brought the glowing sigil to his priest’s chest and pressed it into his flesh.

Tony expected to scream, but instead of sizzling pain he felt a wave of sensation flood his body, radiating from the sigil. It was not pain and not pleasure, but something else, something that set his nerves on fire and blurred his vision, something that dropped the altar out from under him and let him float, tasting moonlight, fireflies, the brush of soft wings over his face. 

Loki whispered, “Breathe,” and Tony took a great, gulping breath, as though emerging from underwater. The god was above him, his eyes glowing, pupils gone, nothing but bright emerald light, his horns towering and golden, his wings spread wide.

“Ah,” was all Tony could say, gasping, shaking like a leaf in his god’s grip. Whatever power had rushed through him still bubbled in his veins. 

The god released his wrists and Tony sat up, exploring his chest with his hands, finding not a painful, burning brand, as he had expected, but instead a smooth, shining, golden symbol. It was as though it were painted on, but no paint glowed like that, no paint blended so seamlessly with the skin underneath. The sigil of the horned raven, wings spread; Loki’s sigil, perfectly placed in the center of his chest.

Tony looked up, amazed, expecting to find the god satisfied with his work, but Loki was glaring, still sitting astride him. The stars above, that Tony now understood were connected to the god’s power somehow, shifted and danced.

“Loki?” Tony ventured, aware he was still pinned on the god’s altar, not yet daring to attempt to rise.

“Lie down,” the god breathed, his words heavy, the feathers of his wings shivering, as though each one was alive. “Lie down, priest. I am not yet satisfied.”

With a hard swallow, Tony lay back down. His god hungered, he had said, and clearly, he hungered for something more than Tony’s prayers.


	3. The Altar

Loki’s black nails tingled, and his fingers trembled as he brushed the sigil on the mortal’s chest. It was golden and glowing, swirling with the power of the priest's prayers. Loki put his palm flat against it and moaned aloud as the sensation rushed through him. It had been so, so long since his sigil had been emblazoned on warm flesh. The thrill of it ran through his arm. It vibrated down to the feathers of his wings and up to the tips of his horns. It was intoxicating, and yet still it was only a poor shadow of the adoration he had once enjoyed.

Loki wanted more.

He wanted hot blood beating under his hands, he wanted prayers and worship, he wanted his priest, his mortal, his only possession. He yearned to eat him like a feast, to drink him like a fine wine, to consume him like a flame on dry wood. He was a god, and in his own temple his will was law; he would take what he wanted.

The mortal's clothes tore under the god's hands and were discarded. Loki ran his possessive hands over bare skin and hard muscle. He circled the pulsing vortex of the sigil with his fingertips, scraped his black nails up over the mortal's broad shoulders and down to his muscular thighs. The mortal was strong from his work in his forge, and Loki's eyes gleamed at the sight. He may have only one priest, but he was a comely one, and the god's mismatched wings shivered at the thought of what came next.

There was no heavy scent of incense in the temple, no drumbeat or bells, no intonations or rhythmic chanting as there had been in the past, but it mattered little. That had been a façade; it was not the true power of the ritual. The power of it was at the heart, between the god, the offering and the altar.

Loki's head spun and the temple-stars pulsed above him, eager to drink in the first surge of power that had been released here in decades. It was not yet more than a trickle, but even that was enough to open up long-forgotten pathways, enough to wake the roaring flame of Loki's hunger and stoke his desperate need. Loki bared his godly flesh and readied himself. He would take his priest, claim him utterly and completely. He would show him how he could serve his god.

It was only then, his hands wrapped around the mortal's thighs, pinning him to the cold stone like a lamb about to be spitted, that Loki felt the man shaking. He looked up to see his face was pale, his eyes wide and fixed, his teeth digging into the flesh of his trembling lip. Worse, the hum of his prayers was almost gone. The lingering echoes of the long day spent beating reverence into molten metal faded away like water into a drain.

"What is wrong, priest?" Loki asked, holding himself back from competing the ritual by force of will alone.

“Tony,” the man gasped, pressing his back to the stone as though he could escape, his fingernails scraping the smooth surface of the altar. “My name is Tony.” He took deep breaths, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat over his body. "If you're going to do what I assume you're going to do, you could at least call me by my name."

 _He is the only one you have,_ Loki reminded himself, counseling himself to patience. _You’re a god with one priest. You need him._

“What is wrong, _Tony_?” Loki growled, his fingers digging into the man’s thighs, his body balanced on the cusp of completion.

Tony looked up at his god, the faint light of the temple-stars reflecting in his brown eyes. He shook his head, the movement jerky and panicked, like a deer before the hunter's bow. "Nothing," he forced out through gritted teeth. "Nothing is wrong. I will fulfill my oath. I am at your service, Loki."

Loki regarded the mortal pinned beneath him. He needed to bring the beat of worship back to his blood. Without it, Loki would soon be adrift again, sustained only by the small superstitions scattered through the folk-memory of the city. Soon, even that slim power may fail, and then…Loki snarled at that thought and let it skitter from his mind. That would _not_ happen, because he had a priest now. But his priest was not _praying_ and Loki did not know why.

“I will not hurt you,” the god ventured. That assurance had seemed to calm the man before, when Loki had put the sigil on him. Perhaps it would work now.

Tony laughed, wetness gathering in his eyes, his laughter taking on an edge of hysteria. His ankles were resting on the shoulders of his god, soft feathers brushing the soles of his bare feet. He was as vulnerable as it was possible to be; his intimate core bared and ready for plunder. “You’re hurting me _now_ ,” he said, twitching his eyes to the rings of purpling bruises that bloomed under Loki’s clenched hands. “You’re hurting me now, Loki.”

The god released him and reared back as though Tony were a snake poised to strike. The priest was right. Without thinking, Loki sent a sliver of power into the mortal, healing his crushed flesh. Loki found other pains and healed them too; injuries from Tony's work in the forge as well as the tender bruise on his skull where Loki had shoved him against his own anvil. The god healed it all, pulling power from his shallow reserves to do so. Above them, temple-stars winked out one by one as Loki exhausted them. He was horrified. Tony's skull was as fragile as an eggshell. His bones would snap like twigs under Loki’s black-nailed hands, his flesh would split and rend like that of an overripe fruit.

Loki had to be careful with him, more careful than he had ever been with an offering. If he hurt Tony too badly, Loki would not have the power to heal him. Things were not as they had been, when his priests brought him fresh offerings with the waning of every moon. Loki had enjoyed those tender morsels on his altar and healed them after, drunk on the surge of his own power. He missed the offerings almost more than he missed his priests; young men and women draped in sheer muslin and gold jewelry, fragrant oils on their skin and the scent of _jeko_ herbs on their breath. They had laid down for Loki willingly, their movements slow and languid from the _jeko_ , and the ritual had been intoxicating as that herb, filling Loki's body and mind with the heady power of worship.

Compared to the offerings of the past, Tony was strong and sturdy. Surely the blacksmith could stand up to the ritual better than those delicate flowers had done? But Tony was all he had, and Loki could not risk it. He could not use him the way he most desperately needed to.

“Get dressed,” the god said shortly, climbing off the altar. He waited as the mortal found the torn remnants of his clothing and dressed himself as best he could. The sigil vanished as Tony held the edges of his shirt together, covering himself and concealing the evidence of Loki’s claim on him.

“Go,” the god said, weary with frustration and disappointment. “Go, priest. I am finished with you tonight. You cannot give me what I want.” The heavy stone doors of the temple opened, flooding the dark room with bright moonlight. Tony flinched, skittish before the displeasure of his god, but he did not turn tail and run. Despite his discontent, Loki admired him for that. He had chosen the man for his courage, and he still displayed it. Perhaps he could make a worthy priest of him yet.

Tony swallowed down his fear. Loki was displeased with him, and that was dangerous for the servant of any god, never mind one with Loki’s dangerous reputation. Tony could not leave without appeasing him, so he went to his knees before Loki's low altar. He put both hands on the slab and bowed until his forehead touched the rough stone. He focused his mind, trying to find the still center that he inhabited while working metal, when the beat of his heart and the beat of his hammer were one. When he found it, he wove a wordless prayer into the rhythm. It was an emotion more than a prayer; a blend of thankfulness, willingness, and devotion, and he sent it to his god. It was the only prayer Tony knew, the same prayer that he had worked into the sigils.

Loki didn't speak, but when Tony raised his head from the altar the god was looking down at him, shimmering wings spread. The gold tips of his horns shone and the green glow in his eyes was a gentle pulse rather than a wild storm. Tony got to his feet, bowed again, and left as his god had commanded.

The moon was high and the night air cold as Tony stumbled out of the temple, the heavy stone doors closing silently behind him. He leaned against the wall for a few minutes to steady his nerves before he was ready for the long walk home. It was clear enough what had happened in the temple. Loki wanted to have him, but he didn't want to hurt him. Or, Tony thought, given what he knew of gods, Loki probably didn't want to hurt him more than his capability to heal. Healing a fevered child was one thing; healing the kind of physical damage a lustful god could do to a helpless mortal was something else.

Tony walked through the silent city streets. His bare feet froze on the cold flagstones and he clutched his torn clothes around himself, trying to warm up. One by one, his mortal concerns trickled back into his head. It was already past midnight, and he had no food for tomorrow, and no money to buy any. Morgan was with her grandmother but that good lady could hardly feed herself, never mind a growing child for days on end. Tony’s smithy had supported the three of them until Morgan's illness, but now he did not even have coal for his furnace. He had left his metalworking tongs somewhere in Loki's temple, and his boots too, both of which he needed if he was going to work the next day. 

He would have to hire out as labor for at least a week. He needed to earn enough money to feed his little family and to buy fuel and materials for his forge.

Consumed by such gloomy calculations, Tony did not notice the light footsteps at his back. It was not until a hand fell on his shoulder that he jerked out of the tired contemplation of his troubles. He spun around, fists raised. He had nothing to steal, but that did not mean brigands would not try him, if they thought him easy prey. Instead of a thief, there was a tall, cloaked figure standing in the shadows behind him.

The figure stepped into the light of the moon and turned into a woman wearing a rich, embroidered robe. Tony squinted, trying to make out the familiar pattern. Before he could, the woman pulled back the hood and Tony realized that he knew her. It was one of the priests he had begged for aid when his daughter was dying. She was Lady Sif, a senior deacon of the temple of Thor, the youngest of the corner gods.

“What do you want?” Tony snapped, his hand uneasy over his heart, ensuring Loki’s sigil was hidden under his clothes.

Sif shifted her face into an ingratiating smile, but her eyes were glued to Tony's chest as though she could see through his hand and down to the sigil underneath. The deacon licked her full lips. “The outcast god has you in his talons,” she breathed, her eyes alight with fervor, “But rejoice, for help is at hand. The might of Thor will free you from his grasp.”


	4. Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that Sif doesn't serve the temple of the Norns, she is a priest of THOR, of course! Duh! I changed the last line of the previous chapter, you don't have to reread - that's the only change.
> 
> (Go back to previous chapters to see art by the wonderful Shivanessa!)

Tony ran. 

There was something about the priest Sif that made the blood run cold in his veins. Thor was a powerful and brutal god, beloved by warriors for his mighty hammer that summoned thunder and lightning at his command. It was rumored that the priests in his service took on aspects of his power as they rose in the ranks. Coming from Loki’s temple with outcast god’s sigil newly emblazoned on his chest, pulsing with power, Tony could not face the priest of Thor. It was too dangerous. With no other option coming to his mind, he turned and took off like a rabbit from a trap, pounding barefoot and frantic through the narrow streets, twisting and turning through alleys and courtyards. He headed away from his forge. If he was followed, he would not lead Sif there.

He jumped a wall and crouched behind it, trying to quiet his breathing. He could only hope that Sif did not know who he was. Yesterday, Tony had been one of hundreds of anonymous supplicants that had passed through Thor’s temple doors on new year’s eve. Surely Sif would not remember him. Besides, the thunder god had not helped Morgan, not even when he had begged. Tony owed that selfish god and his priests nothing at all.

It was nearly dawn before Tony felt it was safe enough to wend his way home. He had not heard the sounds of pursuit for hours, and the streets were filling up with the early-rising workers of the city – bakers, market traders and the like. Walking through the market square, he noticed a baker setting up his stall alone and stopped to offer his help. It was only the second day of the new year, plenty of the celebrants would need at least a few days to recover from the feasting, drinking and excess. Tony received a loaf of warm bread for his trouble and tore a piece off to eat as he walked the rest of the way. Perhaps his prospects for casual labor were not so bad today, with many young apprentices still nursing their aching heads.

The forge was cold and empty when he arrived. Tony sighed and ran his hands through his shaggy hair, surveying the room with gloomy eyes.

What was he supposed to do now? He had no money at all. He had only half the tools he needed to work metal, he had no metal to work. The furnace was out, and he had no coal to heat it. His boots were at his god's temple along with his metalworking tongs, and Loki had torn his protective leather apron and his shirt to shreds.

Tony slid down the wall and sat on the swept-dirt floor, his head in his hands. He was bone tired. From Morgan's sickness to Loki's demands, Tony had not slept more than a few hours in days. Despite that, he had to work today to ensure Morgan and her grandmother were fed, and then Loki would expect him back at his temple that night.

A shiver ran down Tony's spine at the memory of Loki laying him out on his altar. Rough stone and soft feathers against his skin, Loki’s strength holding him down, ripping his clothes off and spreading his legs. The gods desire had been crystal clear – he intended to use Tony for his pleasure. He may be willing to bide his time until he had gathered enough power to ensure Tony survived that ritual, but sooner or later Tony knew he would be spread out on the black altar, his body given as an offering to his god.

Tony gathered himself together, putting such thoughts out of his mind. Breaking down would help no one, least of all Morgan and her grandmother Josta, who were both Tony’s responsibility to provide for. He had half a loaf of bread for them, and he would work for the rest. They would come back from the brink of this almost-tragedy. Tony would feed them and take care of them, and he would please his god as well. And when the time came for him to lie down on Loki's altar, he would do that too.

Newly determined, Tony pushed himself back to his feet. He took off his torn clothes and pulled on spare trousers and an old shirt. He had no other boots to wear. Even the good times had not been so good to him, despite the quality of his work. The sickness that had taken his beloved wife Pepper two years ago had nearly destroyed them financially, and then Morgan's sickness had done the same. Tony and his little family lived on a knife edge.

With bare feet and a determined heart, Tony took the half-loaf of bread and the bundle of torn clothes and headed out. He went to visit Morgan first at Josta's house. He found her still sleeping, bundled in a blanket and exhausted from her sickness. Tony rested his calloused hand on her forehead, her baby-soft skin warm and flushed from sleep, so unlike the blazing fever that Loki had saved her from. He put a butterfly kiss on her cheek and went back out to the porch to talk to Josta.

He handed over the bread, ashamed to give her food that he had already eaten from. Josta didn't say anything about it, just took it with a weary nod. She knew how things were. Morgan's grandmother had seen too much loss in her life, and Pepper’s passing had nearly broken her. If it had not been for Morgan, Tony doubted that Josta would have found the will to live much beyond her daughter’s funeral.

Josta had been a skilled seamstress before her eyesight had faded. She had taught Pepper the art and recently she had started to try to teach Morgan. Now, just like Tony, Josta had sold much of her materials and supplies to try to save her granddaughter's life. She sat on her rickety porch, squinting unhappily as she sewed undyed cloth with rough thread. The pockets and neckerchiefs she could make would bring a few more coins to their family, and it was better than nothing. In this manner, they held themselves together one day at a time.

Josta took Tony's shredded shirt from his hands and shook it out. It looked as though he had been mauled by a wild  _ okut _ . She looked at him quizzically.

"Do not ask me to explain, good-mother," Tony said with a shake of his head. "Can you repair it?"

"Aye, well, I can try." Josta sounded defeated before she even started, but Tony knew she would do her best on the shirt with what poor thread she had.

Tony did not linger. The sun was up, and he needed to work. He peeked in on Morgan one last time, and then walked back to the center of the city.

The rest of the day Tony worked. He moved barrels for an alehouse all morning, which garnered him a few coins and a hearty midday meal. The meal set him up for the long afternoon at the river crossing, loading and unloading the ferries that plied backwards and forward over the deep, slow-moving river. By the time the last ferry was docked and unloaded, Tony had enough money for food for a few days, if they ate frugally. He walked back to his mother-in-law’s house, his bare feet aching on the cold stones of the street. His day was not over yet. Dusk was gathering and Tony still had to visit the temple.

Morgan was up and alert when her father arrived. The girl sat on the low porch with her grandmother, doing her best to sew a fold of thick cloth with her clumsy little fingers. Despite her obvious frustration, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright. Tony’s heart lifted to see her looking so well, when she had been at the door of the afterlife only two days before.

“I come with you daddy,” she declared, eagerly setting her sewing down when Tony said that he had to go to the temple. He didn't say which temple, and Josta gave him a sharp look. Tony shook his head, avoiding Josta's unspoken question. She did not need to know that the outcast god had claimed him, nor that he seemed to have made an enemy of the chief priest of Thor. She had enough to worry about.

Morgan, he answered out loud. "Not this time, my little darling."

He would not take Morgan back to that dark place. He would not tempt the god to change their bargain.

"Next time, daddy?"

“Maybe. I’ll be back before morning,” he evaded, kissing her brow. Behind her back he gave Josta the money he had earned, holding back a few small coins. He could not visit his god empty handed, after all.

***

_ What was a suitable offering for a god? _

Tony pondered the question as he walked. He had little idea what might please his god. Loki's temple was bare apart from the mosaic; no others had left offerings there that Tony could tell. It was already gathering dark and the market traders were packing up their stalls, so Tony had little chance to agonize over his decision. He used his few coins to buy a bundle of incense, and then stayed to help the trader pack up his cart in exchange for a small flint as well.

By the time he turned the corner that led to the temple, Tony was exhausted. He had not slept the previous night, and he had worked all day long. His feet were sore, and his body ached all over. If not for Loki and his demand of daily worship, Tony could be resting his bones in Josta’s little house with his daughter on his lap.

Tony's guilty thought caught him a moment later like a punch to the gut.  _ If not for Loki, you would be weeping over your daughter’s grave. You owe him everything. _

He pushed the door of the temple open, soundless and heavy. Inside, he saw his boots set by the wall, and his metalworking tongs resting neatly beside them. Despite his tiredness, Tony smiled at that. Loki was a god, it was true, careless of mortal lives and cares, but he was not all bad. Pausing to pull his boots on, Tony walked the long, echoing path to the altar.

The stone floor of the temple was hard under his knees when Tony knelt before the altar. The ceiling stars glowed above him, casting a faint light over the black stone before him and the meagre incense in his hands. Tony waited. He let his breath even out, his heart beat slow, his thoughts calm themselves and the cares of the day leak out of his mind. Loki did not care about any of that. He was a god and he only cared about himself.

When he was ready, Tony leaned forward and placed the small cones of incense on the altar. He was careful to place them evenly and symmetrically on the smooth stone, the way he had seen the Corner temple priests do it. He struck the flint and lit the first one, watching the smoke curl up from it, dancing and twisting with the slight movement of the air.

The scent of yarrow permeated the air. Yarrow, for gratitude. Tony watched the bright ember at the heart of the burning cone and let his heart fill with gratitude for what Loki had done for him. He had saved Morgan's life, and in doing so he had saved Tony and Josta too. Morgan was all they had; she was the heart of their little family. Loki had saved them all.

Loki was there, Tony knew, watching from the shadows. Tony could feel the emerald eyes of his god on the back of his neck, but he seemed content to wait while Tony performed this ritual of his own creation.

Hoping his hands did not shake, Tony lit the second cone - juniper, the scent of supplication, of obedience, of respect. Tony was aware of what Loki wanted from him, and he tried to tell him through the second cone of incense that he was willing. Tony would give his god what he wanted; he would pay the debt that he owed. The scent of juniper tickled his nose, zesty and wakeful, and Tony’s eyes watered. He brushed the wetness away, angry at himself for his weakness. There was nothing to cry over - Morgan was alive.

With shaking hands, Tony pulled his shirt off, exposing the bright sigil on his chest. The golden symbol glowed and pulsed in time with the ceiling stars, in time with the beat of Tony's heart. Loki had ripped the shirt off Tony's back twice now. If he kept it up Tony would have no clothing left at all, so it was better that he took it off himself. Juniper, for obedience. If he could not yet lie down for his god, he would at least let him look at what he owned.

Tony lit the third cone - sandalwood, for worship. The three scents mingled and combined as Tony knelt before his god’s altar. He held them in his heart; gratitude, obedience, and devotion. Slowly, as though unwilling to break the spell he had been forging, Tony put his hands flat on the altar and leaned down until his forehead rested on the stone. This was the only way he knew to worship his god. He did not know any of Loki’s ancient prayers or chants, he did not even know if incense was pleasing to him, but Tony held those three prayers in his heart and let them fill him until they overflowed and spilled out.

Gratitude, obedience, devotion. Tony’s three gifts, three promises to his God. It was all he had to give.

There was a soft brush of wings behind him. Tony did not react as Loki’s black-nailed hand slipped around the back of his neck. Loki held him gently but firmly, keeping his head down on the altar. Tony swallowed, his prayer losing focus and sputtering out just as the first cone of incense did, burned down the base.

“You are tired, priest.” 

Loki’s voice was dark and echoing in the empty temple. Tony nodded, the gesture awkward with his face pressed to the rough stone.

"Yes, Loki." 

Tony didn’t explain himself. Gods didn’t care for mortal troubles unless they came with offerings and promises attached. Tony could take care of his responsibilities by himself.

Loki stood in silence for what seemed a long time, his hand heavy on Tony's neck. He seemed to be waiting for Tony to say more, but Tony had no idea what else he wanted him to say.

To his surprise, when the silence lingered for too long, Loki stepped back and released him. “Go, then. Go to your home and rest. You have done enough for today.”

When Tony turned around there was not even a feather to be seen. Confused, he picked up his shirt and got to his feet. Loki had been so demanding the night before, and now he was satisfied with only incense and inept prayer? Tony resolved not to try and make sense of his god's whims. Loki was unpredictable, all the old stories said. Unpredictable and dangerous. Tony bowed before the altar and backed away. When he passed through the wide doorway, the massive door swung shut, closing him out of the temple.

On the altar, unseen by any except Loki himself, the final two cones of incense flickered and burned out, sending the temple back into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year my friends, I wish you all good fortune for 2021.


	5. The Throne

The next day, work was harder to come by. The new year celebration was thoroughly over, and as people lost their hangovers they returned to their regular employers. The alehouse that Tony had worked for the day before turned him away. At the ferry crossing a small group of dejected would-be laborers already waited by the dock, hoping for an opening.

Tony walked the streets, fretting and anxious, his mind churning on his worries. The sun was already well up and he had earned nothing. He avoided the main square where the corner gods had their temples. Despite the chance to pick up work there from wealthy worshipers, he did not want to meet Lady Sif again. The priest of Thor had an unsettling manner about her, and Tony had a feeling she had not given up on trying to 'free' him from Loki's influence.

On his way to the market square, Tony passed a woman pushing handcart laden with milk, cheese and butter. Out of nowhere, a raven cawed loudly and launched itself into the air in a flurry of black wings. The woman startled and fell, her leg twisting up under her. She cried out in pain and Tony hurried to help her up. Her ankle was already swelling inside her boot, and she could hardly walk. There was nothing for it but for Tony to push her cart back to her small dairy while she leaned on his shoulder and limped along beside him. Luckily, it was not far. When they arrived, she fell into a chair with a heartfelt groan, fretting that her milk would spoil, and her customers would find another seller.

Tony at once offered his services. "I can deliver everything for you, Miss."

They struck a hurried deal, and Tony was glad he had his boots back as he tramped all over town with the dairy-cart, delivering goods for Yinley's dairy. At the end of the afternoon he returned the cart filled with now-empty milk-jugs and found Yinley working in her backroom, a makeshift crutch under her arm. She grinned at him, excited, curls of light hair escaping under her cloth cap.

"Try this, I just made it." She offered him a taste of herbed butter, and he did not hesitate to declare it delicious. Yinley decided there and then that she would start spending more time on her recipes and less time on deliveries. "I need to expand my business. I can't be a dairy maid forever. Can you deliver for me tomorrow as well?"

Tony gladly agreed, and left for his home with a lighter heart, a pocket of coins, a jug of creamy milk, a small wheel of cheese and a pat of herbed butter.

Morgan flew into his arms when he turned down the narrow street where Josta had her little house. She was full of energy, completely recovered from her illness, and chafing at the slow pace of life with her grandmother. Josta took the food from Tony but gave him back the coins.

"Keep it for your forge. Your girl needs to get home and start helping you again. She is not a natural needle-woman." 

Josta had a fond smile on her face even as she shook her head in mock-despair. Tony agreed. Morgan took after her tradesman father, not her fine-boned mother. She would grow up in the forge and learn the blacksmithing trade, taking over from Tony when he could no longer work metal.

Morgan bounced on her toes and Tony decided he would take her out with him tomorrow for Yinley's deliveries. It would give Josta a break and give the girl something to do.

When they were done with dinner, Tony reluctantly set Morgan off his lap and declared that he would visit the temple. Josta gave him a dark look, but she didn't question him. Instead, she rummaged in her sewing basket and produced a long rectangle of cloth embroidered with mistletoe around the edges. She folded it carefully and pressed it into his hand.

“For your god.”

Tony could feel her eyes on his back as he left.

***

Tony stumbled over his feet when he entered the temple and saw Loki waiting for him, sprawled on his black stone throne. The faint light of the ceiling-stars glinted on his golden horns, and his eyes glowed like a cat's at night. He looked nothing less than godly, and Tony was once again reminded that while Loki's power may be reduced, he still was as far from mortal as Tony himself was from an ant.

Loki did not speak. He merely waved his hand for Tony to begin his nightly ritual. Tony swallowed, clumsy and awkward under the scrutiny of his god. He knelt at the altar and laid out the cloth that Josta had given him. It was beautiful work; tiny stitches in deep green thread on pale yellow silk, the berries of the mistletoe bright white. Tony smoothed it with his hands, feeling a twinge of the loss that his mother-in-law must feel, that she could no longer do such fine embroidery or afford such good quality materials. He would feel the same if he could no longer work metal; it would be as though he had lost one of his limbs.

Tony set the incense cones at the front of the stone, away from the cloth so they would not scorch it. At once he saw that the altar was incomplete - the cloth should hold an offering as well. Tony had made it into an altar-cloth, a place to put gifts to the gods, not a gift of itself. He glanced up at Loki, unsure if he had made a mistake, but the god had not moved.

With shaking hands, Tony lit the first cone. He had chosen the same scents as the day before; yarrow, juniper, and sandalwood. Gratitude, obedience, and devotion.

They waited in the quiet temple together, the seated god and his kneeling priest, as the incense smoldered. The faint crackle and pop of the embers was the only sound. Tony felt the weight of his god’s eyes on him, and with a start he realized that he had forgotten something. Without hesitation, he pulled his shirt over his head and bared the sigil on his chest. The next time he looked up, Loki was watching him the way the wolf watches the deer. Tony shivered and told himself it was cold in the temple.

When all three incense cones were lit, Loki finally spoke, his voice a low rumble in the still air.

“Come here.”

Obediently, Tony got to his feet and rounded the altar, approaching the throne. The great seat was underneath the huge mosaic showing Loki in all his terrible glory - wings spread, eyes blazing, power crackling from his fingertips. It was intimidating, to say the least, but Tony was summoned and so he answered. Gods did not care to wait, or to be disobeyed.

“Here,” Loki ordered, crooking his finger. Tony climbed the steps to the throne and stood between his god's feet in their heavy scaled boots.

Loki hooked one finger in the waist of Tony’s trousers, dragging him forward the final few steps until he stood between his spread knees. Tony steeled himself - he knew what Loki wanted from him. If he was ordered to kneel, he would do it. He would serve in whatever manner his god wanted.

Gratitude, obedience, devotion.

Loki did not give him any such order. Instead, he seemed hypnotized by the sigil on Tony’s chest. It glowed like a beacon between them, flush with Tony's skin, melded to his flesh as though it were painted on. Loki stroked it with his rough fingertips, tracing the outline with his black nails. The reflection of it glowed in the depths of his eyes, a reversed image of the horned raven, wings outstretched. 

Loki looked away, his face unreadable. He released his hold on Tony’s clothes and leaned back on his throne. 

“Tell me, priest, did you find your prayers well answered today?"

Tony stared blankly.

Loki bared his teeth in what could have been a smile. "That woman with the milk-cart, she gave you the coins you wanted, yes?"

"She didn't give them to me, I worked for them..." Tony started to protest before he realized what Loki was implying. "Wait, how did you know that? Did you … what did you do?" Tony stared at his god, mouth open, his understanding of the world unraveling and remaking as he stood there. The raven had come out of nowhere and caused Yinley to fall, which had caused her to give Tony a day’s work. Tomorrow he would work for her again and have enough money to start restocking his forge.

Loki did smile then, the first real smile Tony had seen on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement at Tony's surprise. “Did you think I would not hear your prayers, priest? Your heart was full of them.”

Tony thought back to that morning - worry and stress over money and food for his family was all that had been on his mind. He would hardly have called it a prayer, but still his god had heard it, and answered it. He shook himself, trying to right his thoughts. 

“I did not know you were listening,” he confessed.

Loki leaned forward, the smile vanished from his face as thought it had never been. “You are my priest,” he said, dark and low. He licked his lips. “You belong to me and no others. I will always hear your prayers.”

The force of Loki’s possessive words triggered something inside Tony, something that quickened his pulse and made the breath catch in his chest. He was only now beginning to realize what it meant to be a priest of the outcast god; it was a lot more than these nightly visits to his temple. It was the offering of his whole life.

There was only one thing Tony could say. "Thank you, Loki."

A black-nailed hand clamped around Tony’s upper arm and pulled him forward until he stumbled and had no choice but to climb onto Loki throne, sitting astride his lap. Loki manhandled him easily. Tony was confused but he did not resist as he was turned and positioned with his back to his god, looking out over the dark temple.

Loki slipped one hand around Tony’s chest and covered the bright sigil with his palm, pressing Tony against him, holding them together. His other hand gripped Tony’s thigh, holding him exactly where he was wanted.

“If you wish to thank me, then pray,” Loki rumbled in his ear.

Tony’s mind was blank. All thoughts of prayer had flown from his head at the clear and present evidence of his god’s arousal under him. Tony at least was still wearing trousers, so it seemed that Loki did not intend to simply impale him atop his own throne.

At least, not yet.

They both knew it would be but the work of a moment for Loki to rip off Tony's clothes and have him. He did not do it because he chose not to, that was all.

The god tightened his grip, his hands like iron, his breath hot on the back of Tony’s neck as he repeated his order.

“Pray, priest. I want to hear you.”

The faint lingering scent of incense drifted past Tony’s nose. It smelled of juniper, and Tony’s mind leapt back into life. Juniper, for obedience. Tony focused on that as the god behind him started to move, grinding his hips against Tony’s backside.

Gratitude, obedience, devotion.

Of the three, obedience was easiest. Loki wanted this service from him, and so Tony would give it. He would give more if it were required. He would not resist or refuse. He would not dare.

The rhythm of the prayer began to move in Tony’s blood, and he tried to relax into it. It was not easy, held fast in his god’s lustful arms, with the rhythmic surge of his hard length pressed against his buttocks, but he tried.

Dark shadows curved above them - Loki’s wings, one longer than the other, were spread and lifted. The glossy feathers trembled as Loki pleasured himself with Tony’s body and drank in Tony’s prayers like intoxicating liquor.

“Good,” Loki purred as he rubbed himself against Tony. “Good. More.”

Tony tried to give him more, but he was losing focus. He was overwhelmed, manipulated like a doll in his god's hands, surrounded by his strength, by his power, wrapped in his wings and helpless to do anything but obey. His head fell back on Loki’s shoulder, his eyes glazed and staring up at Loki’s godly visage, framed by black wings and crowned by golden horns.

Loki was a beautiful and terrible god, and Tony was his priest.

As though reading his emotions, Loki looked down at him, taking in his dark eyes, his full lips, his flushed cheeks. He understood, without words, what Tony needed. He released Tony's thigh and instead pressed the palm of his hand to Tony's crotch, his hand hard on the eager length he found there. Tony moaned out loud, his hand around Loki’s wrist, whether to encourage him or pull him away he didn’t even know. There was a newly kindled fire in his blood that needed to be answered, growing as Loki’s golden power flowed through him.

Gratitude, obedience, devotion.

Tony’s gratitude was answered with watchfulness, his obedience with protection, his devotion with desire.

Loki squeezed his hand. It was the wrong side of too hard and Tony squirmed, writhing on his god’s lap, his movement exactly what Loki wanted. Loki did it again, moving Tony’s body as he pleased, one hand around his chest and the other gripping his most tender flesh, making Tony dance for him, making him twist and pump his hips against the god’s arousal. Tony’s eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body was a prayer to Loki. He was his god’s creature, his possession, his object to pleasure himself with. But despite that, despite his awareness of his helplessness, he still had not lost his courage.

“Loki,” Tony panted desperately, pleasure and pain washing through his body in waves, a combination he had never felt before. “Loki, please, please, please.”

Loki growled and rubbed his palm over Tony’s cock, hard and brutally strong. Tony convulsed and came with a strangled cry. A moment later Loki’s teeth pierced his shoulder as the god climaxed too, golden sparks rising from his eyes, from his horns, and from his wide-spread wings.

Like a rainstorm in reverse, a thousand fireflies bloomed throughout the temple, drawn up to the ceiling to become new stars, bright and gold and beautiful.


	6. The Hammer

The next morning, Josta surprised Tony by volunteering to take his place at Yinley’s dairy.

“My eyes are bad and I sold my best needles,” she said, closing the lid on her hollowed out sewing basket with a sense of finality. “But I’m not so old that I can’t haul a few jugs of milk around town. You need to get back to your forge.”

She would hear no argument about it, so she, Tony, and Morgan walked together to the clean, cool dairy as the sun rose above them. Yinley was happy with the trade and when Tony and Morgan left the two women were already laughing together, talking over their busy hands in that way that working women had. Pepper had been that way too, sitting with her mother over their embroidery, fingers flying and eyes sparkling as they worked. Tony smiled as he left them to their business, hoping that Josta may find an employer and maybe even a friend. His little family was due some good fortune, and perhaps his new god would turn their path towards a fairer fate with the start of the new year.

Tony’s heart was light as he headed for the crafters market, Morgan’s small hand gripped tight in his calloused one. The coins in his pocket were not much, it was true, but he had enough for coal for his forge and wafers of both hard and mild steel. The vision of what he needed to make had formed in his mind that morning as though sent by Loki himself. Tony’s forge belonged to his god now, and his first creation of the new year must be an offering to him.

Like all blacksmiths, bakers, and others who worked with fire, Tony's house was on one side of an open courtyard, and the work area was on the other. Only a fool would build a furnace next to where their family slept, and Tony was no fool. A wind turbine spun slowly on the roof of the forge, improving the airflow to the fire and powering an impact hammer that doubled the strength of Tony's arm. He had made the improvements himself, and he had ideas for a dozen more labor-saving devices - all he needed was time to build them.

Returning to the forge was like returning home. This place held his and Morgan’s heart more than the house across the courtyard, especially since Pepper had gone to the afterlife. The two of them spent their days here and often their nights too, Tony working long past sunset and Morgan dozing in the corner, wrapped in a blanket.

The furnace sprung to life as soon as Tony sparked it, as though the bricks had been hungering for the flame. Tony loved the forge - the warm smell of burning coal, the tink and creak of the heated bricks, the orange glow that bathed his face in light. Looking over at Morgan he saw her staring at the fire too, her dark brown hair transformed to burnished copper by the flames. She loved the forge just as much as he did, the fire and flame feeding into the act of creation, drawing shape and purpose from raw steel. It was in their blood.

Some time ago, Tony had made a small work table for Morgan in the back of the forge, low and sized for a child. Morgan settled herself there, taking out her undersized tools from her drawer and setting them in a careful row. She did that every day, ready to help her father. Looking at her now, it was as though nothing had changed, as though she had never fallen sick and nearly died of fever. Tony's heart ached as he watched her, his beloved daughter, more precious to him than anything else in his life. He was glad he had overlooked her drawer when he had stripped the forge of anything he could sell. Her little tools would not have brought much money, but in his desperation Tony had not been discriminating on what had been sold and what had been kept.

He set the wafers of metal on Morgan's table to sort as he searched around the forge for any tools he had missed. He found a rusted punch in the back room, under the loosened brick that had hidden Pepper’s wedding ring. He put his smallest remaining coin in the hiding spot and nudged the brick back into place. He liked to have something valuable hidden in the forge - it was a superstition that blacksmiths had followed for generations.

His remaining tools were a meager selection. He had his tongs, but he missed his favorite hammer, uselessly left on Thor’s altar. He toyed with the thought of going to demand it back. Thor had not answered his prayer and so he did not deserve his offering. It only took a moment to dismiss that idea. He was an apostate from those gods now, and he would be a fool to attract their attention, or the attention of their priests.

The first of the sigils that Tony had made for Loki still rested on the large central worktable, and Tony remembered his bargain with the god. He would dedicate his forge to Loki, his hammer and his anvil as well as himself. As soon as the furnace was hot enough he took an off-cut of steel and used it to weld the sigil to the side of his anvil, just as he had promised Loki he would. The horned raven stared at him with bright eyes, the twin of the sigil now emblazoned on his chest.

Tony rubbed his chest with a shiver. The shape seemed to shimmer under his fingers, sensitive in the way that heat or cold was. It was not that though, it was another sense, an arcane awareness that made his fingertips tingle even through his shirt.

He shook himself. He had work to do that day, both for his god and for himself. At her little table, Morgan had made a tidy array of steel billets ready for him to use. Each one had four layers of alternating hard and mild steel wafers, but there was also one stack of five. Tony raised his eyebrows at her but the girl just pointed at the larger stack and said, “This is the special one, daddy.”

It was tradition in the city to do things in sets of four - once for each of the corner gods. Tony had the habit of stacking steel wafers in fours, heating and folding it four times to make sixteen layers. He would not have called himself a pious man, but he made offerings on feast days and generally tried to keep in good favor with the gods. Observing the fours was one of the things he did almost without thinking about it.

_ It didn't help you though, not when it counted. _

The stack of five felt right in his hand, and he set it in the furnace without comment. Five layers. Odin, Frigga, Thor, the Norns, and Loki. Five, not four. He would fold it five times to make twenty-five layers for Loki’s offering.

“Make them all special, darling,” he said to Morgan. She smiled in satisfaction as she restacked the metal into fives.

As Tony worked, time fell away. The heat of the forge, the beat of his hammer, and the glowing metal in his tongs sent him into that meditative state that he loved. The metal moved under his hammer, an offering to his god. He could see the shape of it in his mind, and his vision guided his hands and his hammer, the process so natural that it was like breathing to him.

He quenched the blade in the oil barrel less than three hours later, the fastest and easiest piece he had made in his life. He sighted the lines and could not see the slightest warp or imperfection in the metal. He ran a file over the edge to test the hardness, and it skittered over the blade smoothly, without digging in. The metal was tempered to perfection. It was flawless.

Morgan was ready with the grinding stone at her little worktable, seeming to realize the urgency and importance of this blade. Tony gave it to her to finish, knowing she would do a good job. Even at her age Morgan could tell hard steel from soft. She could run her fingers over a blade and find delaminations and cold shuts in the metal that Tony’s calloused fingers and often-tired eyes might have missed. She would be a master-smith in her own right one day, and Tony could not wait to teach her everything he knew. It felt right that she should play her part in the making of this offering.

Before Tony could gather his thoughts and start on the other work of the day - horseshoes and axe heads that he could easily sell at tomorrow’s market - the door to the forge was shoved open with a bang.

Tony almost swallowed his heart when Lady Sif strode in, her expression triumphant. Two lesser priests flanked her, one blond and one dark, both of them well built and stern faced.

Tony discreetly stepped to the side, shielding Morgan from their gaze in the shadows at the back of the room.

“You.”

Sif glared straight at Tony, and every instinctive protest that skittered over his tongue died when he saw what she held in her hand. It was his hammer. The one he had left on Thor’s altar four days ago. One of his most important possessions that he had given to the god Thor, only to be met with silence and abandonment in return.

Tony straightened his back at the sight of it, anger growing in his belly. He would not be intimidated by this arrogant priest, not here in his own forge, newly consecrated in Loki’s honor. He would not fear the absent god Thor, when he had seen his own god before him in the living flesh.

“What do you want?” he said.

Sif lifted her chin. She was lean and strong boned, broad-shouldered as Thor’s priests tended to be, but there was something about her that set Tony’s teeth on edge. There was an aura of smugness that radiated from her, as though only she knew the correct path and all others were too foolish to see it. Tony’s hammer made a soft thud as she set it on the center table. He swallowed uneasily when he saw the handle newly burned with Thor’s sigil - his famed short-handled war-hammer Mjolnir. That sigil had no place in his forge, not now.

“You have lost your way, blacksmith,” Sif said, her voice low and intent. “You can run from me but you cannot run from the gods. The corner temples know of your heresy and they have sent me to guide your path.”

“My path is fine,” Tony snapped. “You’re not welcome here.”

“The corner gods are welcome everywhere.”

Sif spoke with such calm certainty that Tony wanted to throw something. The two priests that flanked her stood with arms folded, doing their best to look tough. Tony had no patience with it. He had seen true power.

“Everywhere except here. Get out.”

Thor's priest hissed through her teeth, rage flitting over her face for a split second. “You have been deceived. The gods know which path is right for you and you have been led from it. You need my help. It will be hard but it is necessary, the girl was not meant…”

The door to the forge opened again, cutting off Sif's poisonous words. Tony’s breath stopped in his chest when he saw who his new visitor was.

A tall man stood in the doorway, long dark hair falling about his pale face. The spread of wings had become the asymmetric pleats of a leather surcoat, the spiraling rise of his horns was now a golden circlet on his brow, his black nails were obsidian gems on his fingers. Loki had not disguised his eyes though - they were emerald green and as bright as moonlight.

The god in mortal form looked around the room, as though orienting himself in his unfamiliar body. His lip curled at the sight of Tony’s hammer corrupted with Thor’s sigil. He noticed Sif and her priests, and before Tony’s eyes he seemed to pull his mortal form more tightly around himself. His hair became less glorious, his eyes lost their luster, he even seemed to lose a few inches of his imposing height. If Tony had not seen him before, he would now think Loki a wealthy lord, not the outcast god himself, walking the city streets shoulder to shoulder with mortal men.

“Blacksmith,” the god said, his voice several shades less gravelly than Tony was used to.

There was a long pause, and Tony realized he was supposed to respond.

“Yes,” he said, dizzy at the sheer audacity of his god standing before him with the priests of Thor in the same room. Sweat trickled down his back. The pause continued, Loki’s expression darkening until finally the blond priest behind Sif’s shoulder took pity on him.

_ Yes my Lord _ , he mouthed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

“Yes my lord!” Tony blurted out, his stopped heart suddenly surging into life, pumping in his chest several dozen times in the space of the next breath. “Yes, my lord. Yes, I am the blacksmith. Sir.”

He bowed, inelegant and panicked. Tony did not often consort with nobility, but anyone watching him in that moment would take him for the lowliest bumpkin in the city.

Clearly, the priests of Thor were not impressed. Sif had better manners. The coffers of the corner gods were well fattened by offerings from the wealthy lords and ladies of the city, so she did not miss a chance to introduce herself and invite Loki to visit Thor’s temple as her personal guest.

“I will certainly consider it,” Loki replied smoothly, his eyes as cold as winter ice. “But first, the blacksmith and I have some business to discuss. If you would excuse us?”

Sif did not want to leave, but she also did not want to insult someone she took to be a rich and powerful man. She shot Tony a poisonous look and Loki a simpering smile, then she and her priests left the forge.

The god and his priest stood in silence, waiting to be sure that they were truly alone. Loki seemed to grow with each breath. His leather coat fluttered around him, and the gold on his brow glinted in the light from the fire.

“Loki,” Tony breathed, when he was sure the priests of Thor were gone.

“Burn that,” Loki ordered, pointing at the hammer on the table.

Tony was glad to do so, pulling on his heavy gloves and tossing the hammer into the furnace. The handle and Thor’s sigil would be turned to ash in moments. Although the head was made from good steel, Tony would not make another tool out of it, not now that Thor's priests had had their hands on it. He would allow it to over-burn and crumble to nothing in the heat of his furnace.

The handle flared as it caught fire, casting flickering shadows on Loki's face. Morgan, who had been as silent as a mouse in the presence of Sif and her minions, poked her head around Tony’s legs, looking up at the god in his mortal form.

Loki regarded the girl for a long moment, and then to Tony’s shock he crouched down level with her, tipping his head to one side. The mannerism was so like a raven that Tony would have smiled if he had not been on the verge of passing out from stress.

“Greetings, little one. You are well?”

Morgan stared back and Tony held his breath. He had not told her anything about Loki, or about what had happened when she was sick. He regretted it now. He should have schooled her on how to behave before a god, but he had never in his life imagined this moment would happen. He had never intended to take her back to Loki's temple to face him, but now the god was here, in their forge in broad daylight and Tony's tongue had turned to lead.

Morgan stepped out from behind her father, her eyes wide and fixed on Loki’s face. Slowly, as though piecing together a puzzle, she raised her hands, two fingers pointing up, and made a gesture of horns beside her head.

Seconds ticked by, the crackle of the coal forge and the burning hammer the only sound, the room heated, the air heavy.

Slowly, Loki mirrored Morgan’s gesture, making horns by his own head, his fingers pointing up by the side of the gold circlet.

“Clever girl,” he breathed, his green eyes alight. “You remember me.”

Morgan nodded. “The place with the stars.”

The god reached behind his back and produced a glossy black feather, tucking it behind Morgan’s ear, half hidden in her hair.

"The place with the stars is my temple. You can find me there if you need me, little one.”

Morgan ran her small finger over the feather, the edge as smooth as glass under her touch. She nodded, an understanding reached between the small child and the ancient god, then turned and trotted back to her worktable.

_ Loki had children once. _

Tony remembered that from a childhood story, but what had happened to them was not spoken of. He only knew the god had been cast out and his temple purged. Those stories were not told anymore, replaced by new stories that only spoke of four gods, not five. Perhaps Josta would remember those old ones. He would ask her that evening.

Loki turned back to Tony, his fond smile gone. His godly form was forcing its way to the surface, dissolving his mortal disguise. Behind him, the furnace cast shadows on the wall in the shape of mis-matched wings, darkening with every breath.

“Do not let my brother’s priests in here. This place is mine.”

"Yes, Loki." Tony agreed without thinking. He had no idea how he could keep Sif out, but the force of Loki's order burrowed into his mind and there was no possible option other than to agree.

The steel in the furnace split with a loud crack, the first warning sound of overburning that would send any right-minded smith running to the fire. Tony stood still, his mind sticking on a particular word Loki had spoken.

"The god Thor is your brother?"

Loki's horns started to form. His eyes reflected with forge-light, multiplying and scattering it into emerald green shards. The leather of his coat began to divide and separate, the shapes of feathers appearing at the edges.

"That is not your concern, priest."

Loki regretted his anger when Tony took an involuntary step back. He tried to calm himself, reminding himself over and over that Tony was merely a mortal. He was so young. He had not seen the bloodshed in Loki's temple, he had not seen the families destroyed when his children were hunted down and torn from their arms. He had not seen Loki helplessly trapped and mutilated by the power of the other four gods. If he had, he would not ask such questions.

The perpetrators of that atrocity had carried Thor's banner, as well as those of the other corner gods. Loki could not stand the sight of his former brother's sigil. He had seen the death and destruction wrought by Mjolnir and he could not tolerate it before his eyes.

Tony belonged to him and so did this forge. Loki would not allow the presence of any other gods.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Chaos Is Overrated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22113760) by [Achika_pl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achika_pl/pseuds/Achika_pl)




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